Glumbumble's Treacle
by partofforever
Summary: Ten years after the Battle of Hogwarts Harry takes his expecting friend to a hospital and meets another friend there. He's got a mission now - to deliver a jar of Glumbumble's treacle to room 703.
1. Chapter 1

**Glumbumble's Treacle**

"How can I be late for something I didn't even know about until five seconds ago?!" Harry snapped nervously at Hermione, who was standing near the door with an impatient look on her face.

"It's not like you couldn't predict it'll happen one of these days," she replied and gasped suddenly as if in pain

"All right, all right, I'm coming," he grabed his keys and helped his friend down the stairs. She was hardly walking now and Harry could only curse Ron and his department's delegation to New Mexico. Why now? Why couldn't he go _after_ his wife gave birth? His question wasn't answered of course and all he could do was driving Hermione to the hospital - the road felt unexpectedly long, even though normally it seemed short and enjoyable, especailly when he was visiting the younger patients, using his time to cheer them up in any way he could.

Justin Finch-Fletchley, whom Hermione informed beforehand, greeted them at the door. Harry was surprised to notice - to his visable relief - that the former Hufflepuff was no longer the scared boy he remembered from their second year and the infamous meeting of the Dueling Club. Hermione was praising his medical skills and it seemed Justin was doing fine trying to connect magical and Muggle medical knowledge.

But now that Hermione was in safe hands - she insisted on Harry waiting in the hallway - he decided to drink something. It felt unreal to be waiting for his best friends' first child to be born and it reminded him of Sirius; was he waiting for his godson's birth so eagerly too?

There was a cafeteria on the second floor, he remembered it vaguely from his previous visits. A cup of hot coffee was everything he needed now. And maybe he could get some flowers nearby? It would be nice to give them to Hermione after everything was over.

"Harry, is that you?" A familiar voice snapped him out of his thoughts. Neville Longbottom was walking towards him with a familiar grin on his face. "What brought you here? Another charity event?"

"Not this time," he said with a faint smile. "I'm with Hermione."

"Hermione?" Neville seemed confused for a second, but then his tone changed: "You mean she's... Dear Merlin, why today? Did you inform Ron?"

"Of course... Oh no," Harry stopped suddenly. No one contacted Ron. "It was all happening so quickly," he tried to excuse himself.

"No one's blaming you, Harry," Neville patted him lighly on the shoulder. "I'm on my way to the healers' office, the fireplace should be usable. He's in New Mexico, right?"

Harry nodded. How could he forget about his best friend, the father of Hermione's child?

"If I catch him now, he should be here in minutes, so don't worry," Neville smiled again and added: "I'll get him, so in exchange could you deliver this to room 703? The healers there are constantly running out of Glumbumble's treacle, I wonder what they're doing with it..." Before Harry could say even a single word, he was standing in the hallway alone with a jar full of molasses.

He never wandered so far in the hospital - children were usually residing at third floor and room 703 was much higher at seventh tier. Something felt off about this place - the corridors were empty and suspiciously quiet, as if all the patients were either too ill to walk out of their beds or too dangerous to be let free. Harry wasn't sure where this second though came from - he wasn't thinking about such things for years now. After giving up on his Auror career there were so many interesting and exciting tasks to take he couldn't bother himself with thinking about what used to be. Or rather he didn't _want_ to bother himself; the past was a dark and gloomy place and he had no intention of going back, there was no point.

Room 703 was at the far end of the dimly lit hallway; it reminded Harry of Hogwarts in a way, even though there was nothing welcoming neither pleasant about it. The door opened with a crack, unnaturally loud in the deathly silence. If he was younger, maybe he could feel a thrill of adventure of some sort, but these things were in the past too. It seemed his life was like he always wanted it - peaceful, quiet, ordinary. And a little bit boring.

The room appared to be uninhabited at first; there was no sign of any healer and the similar beds near the window seemed empty. But it was certainly brighter in here with the light of setting sun shining through crystal clear glass.

"Hello," Harry said aloud, surprised to hear a note of doubt in his own voice. He couldn't be scared, could he? "Is anyone here?"

Silence. Only his footsteps echoed in the the evening air.

"I... I brought the treacle," he stated, cursing himself for stuttering. What was he doing? The Chosen One scared of an empty room?

But something was making him uneasy about this place and soon enough he found the reason.

He wasn't alone.

One of the beds was occupied by a sleeping figure he didn't notice at first. And when he came closer - guided by curiosity rather than reason - he gave out a muffled scream. He would scream louder if he wasn't afraid of waking the sleeping man, but at the same time he felt like running away and disappearing from this place forever - not only from the hospital, but from England, Europe, hopefully even from this planet if he could.

He should have known better. If Harry Potter was able to go back from that weird, misty place where he met Dumbledore ten years ago, why should _he_ be worse? There must have been a way to escape the Limbo. Maybe if he had stayed there, it wouldn't be happening? A chaotic race of thoughts was ruling his head.

But once again he was brought back to earth:

"How can I help you?," somebody asked and he had to turn away from the sleeping figure.

"I... I brought the treacle," Harry repeated, this time sounding even weaker than before. His legs were shaking and there was no way he could hold a conversation now.

"Oh, it's from Neville, right?," the healer asked merrily and took the jar from Harry. "He's probably mad we needed another fill, but our patient seems to respond only to this kind of medicine..."

"Your patient?," Harry heard his voice as if it was coming from a great distance. "What exactly is wrong with him? If... If I may ask, of course."

The healer looked at him for some time like he was judging his intentions, but in the end he gave in:

"He's suffering from a rare kind of personality disorder, or at least we think so. It's certainly amusing in a way to see _you_ here," the wizard cast Harry another puzzling look. "You see... He believes he's You-Know-Who."

Harry tried to smile, but he wasn't sure whether it worked out. Of course the sleeping man believed he was Lord Voldemort, because he indeed _was_ him. He might be looking like the boy he remebered from his second year and the cursed diary, but there was no mistake - Voldemort was lying in this hospital bed for Merlin knows how long and no one knew the fate was again playing with them all.

"We've tried each and every medicine, every potion and herb, but nothing's working on him," the man waved his hand around the room and placed the jar on a nearby table. "We can only make him suffer less with sedation, so he's sleeping most of the time, years to be precise."

"What do you mean by _years_?," Harry asked terrified.

"He's here since 1998, we got him right after the Battle of Hogwarts... We were pretty sure it's some kind of post-war trauma," the healer continued, looking at the sleeping patient. "But as it wasn't going away month after month and other patients began to complain, we had to move him here, where no one can hear his mumbling."

Harry was hoping he wouldn't get to know what exactly this mysterious patient is mumbling about, but his hopes were soon gone:

"If we weren't familiar with such conditions, somebody could belive he really is who he thinks he is... To be honest, he's obsessed with you," the healer looked at his guest with a mixture of amusement and apology in his eyes.

And just when Harry was trying to find an excuse to escape this conversation - and this room - another sound cought his attention. His name, spoken in a soft tone he never knew could exist, made him shiver.

"He's about to wake up again," the healer announced, walking past him and taking the jar in his hands again. "Thank you for the molasses."

"Wait!" Harry said suddenly, grasping the man's shoulder. "Maybe I could... talk to him? Maybe if he sees me..."

"He'll be cured?," once again the healer seemed rather amused. "You may try, but we all abandoned hope already. Of course none of us is The Chosen One," he grinned slighlty, walking towards the door. "He shouldn't be dangerous... But if anything happens, don't hesitate to call me."

Harry nodded in approval and sat down by the bedside. Could he be mistaken? No, there was mistake - the man in front of him surely was Tom Riddle as he remembered him from the diary and the memories Dumbledore collected. He seemed a little bit older, no longer a teenage boy, but rather a man his age, but it was certainly him. And if his appearance wasn't enough, he could recognize his voice for sure. Just like in the Chamber of Secrets - it was tempting and stangely pleasant, lovable even.

"Harry," he heard his name again, this time more clearly. There was something unknown in this voice too; a mystery he wanted to discover, a history of a man who escaped death once again.

"I'm here," he replied, trying to stay calm. It was hard at first, but his initial fear vanished. He was embarassed to recall the terror he felt mere minutes ago; a Gryffindor like him shouldn't behave this way. It seemed he was braver at the age of eleven than he was now.

For some time his companion was silent again. His eyes were still closed, but he was certainly regaining his senses; even his sickly pale skin was looking less deadly.

"Harry," the voice was heard again, sharper and with some sort of understanding in it. "Harry."

"I'm here," he repeated, wondering what comes next. His wand was still in his pocket, close enough to use it if it was necessary.

"It's real this time, isn't it?," the patient asked hesitantly. "I've dreamed... I've lived this scene too many times. And strangely... when it's finally happening, I have no words."

Harry had no words too. He had never thought about things to say for such an occassion - why should he? This man was a part of his past, a world long gone, a world of ashes and stolen moments of happiness. There were no words to describe what he was feeling either now or then.

"I think... I should start with saying that I'm truly sorry for trying to kill you again," Voldemort - Tom Riddle? - said and Harry could swore he saw a hint of smile on his deceitfully angelic face. He felt something twisting in him painfully. Was this man mocking him again, even though he should be dead? "If I knew that you were a horcrux, I would have never try to kill you."

"Because I was a horcrux?," he coudln't believe what he was hearing. What kind of a sick joke this was?

"Because you were _dear_ to me. Or rather you were dear to a part of me, _this_ part."

"Tom Riddle?" Harry looked at his companion with a puzzled expression. "I thought he was gone a long time ago."

"He - _I_ \- did my waiting. As you may guess the Limbo isn't the most pleasant place to spend eternity. But it certainly gives you time to think. So after thinking about all the things that could have been and what went wrong in my plan, a part of me - the part that was once called Tom Riddle - decided to go down a path of redemption and it's all because of you."

"So you've heard my entreaty," Harry said quietly, looking at his shoes. This converastion was like nothing he had ever imagined. "I was never sure whether I made it clear enough."

" _Tom_ heard it. You see, out of us all, he was always the one with too many doubts and too little self preservation instinct." This time Harry was sure the man smiled and he looked like a person he never knew before. "If the Limbo was worse than hell, then there is no way to describe what happened to us next," the man shivered visibly. "But in the end we were able to come back."

"But... how?," Harry had to ask. "It wasn't supposed to end this way, you were _gone_."

 _How many times do I have to kill you to finally get rid of you?_ , he wanted to say, but stopped himself. He was in a hospital full of people and who knew what this man was caplable of doing. He had to be careful.

"How? Isn't it obvious? _You_ brought us here," the man said, as if he was stating a known fact. "To be precise - you brought _Tom_ here."

Harry must have looked perplexed, because the man continued:

"Redemption, foriveness, love, all the silly things Dumbledore taught you about, they do work, even though it seems you gave up on them too. Funny how you've become a little bit more like me these past few years."

I'm nothing like you, Harry wanted to say, but the words couldn't escape his mouth. The mockery wasn't false this time. What was he doing all these years? He gave up on his career, his fiancee, his plans for the future. He was _lost_. And alone. The last stand on the battlefield everyone left a long time ago. A symbol of no use.

There were times he thought it would be better if he was gone too, just like his nemezis. If there was no Lord Voldemort, there was no need for Harry Potter. If he had anything to say, he would change the prophecy to something more suitable: _neither can live while the other perishes._

And he _did_ think about Voldemort at times; during the sleepless hours before dawn, when everyone was calmly resting, he was aimlesly wandering around London trying to figure out what went wrong. But the answer was unknown, haunting him time after time from the shadows.

"But you... You're not Tom, are you?," Harry asked in the end, still trying to understand what was happening.

"Tom's still sleeping," the man answered, looking nearly concerned all of a sudden. "He's suffered the most and there aren't many things that could cure him."

"Not even the Glumbumble's treacle?," Harry asked, looking hopefully at the jar.

"No, not even Glumbumble's treacle."

"But I'll be able to bring him back?"

"You can try."

* * *

 _ **AN** : It turned out much longer than I thought. And there will be a second part someday I guess, because didn't even appear? And I certainly have plans for him._


	2. Chapter 2

**Glumbumble's Treacle**

"How much longer do you intend to drag it on, Harry?"

Hermione was sitting in his kitchen with a cup of white tea in her hands – the cup was a special one he got from Aberforth Dumbledore last year and it had a magical picture of a flying goat on it; Aberfoth was so glad with the design he gave it to everyone he knew and even sent one to Rita Skeeter. It was a sunny August afternoon, warm enough to let Rosie sleep in her pram on the balcony; a soft wind was moving the long curtains lighlty, making the scene look heavenly peacefully.

But Hermione's brows were frowning, making her look a little bit like Minerva McGonagall, indicating something was making her upset.

Harry knew what if was of course – Rose Weasley was born nearly three month ago, he became her godfather soon after, but even though he cherished the girl and her parents, there weren't many occasions for them to meet these past months. Ron was busy with his work at the Ministry, going up and up in the Auror Headquaters, and Hermione took only a short leave after her pregnancy – her campaing concerning magical creatures' laws was gaining attention not only in England, dividing wizards to those who were with her and against. But even though his friends were so busy, they've easily noticed that Harry was drifting apart from them. First he started declining Sunday dinner invitations to the Burrow – Mrs Weasley was hoping he finally got a girlfriend and wasn't that mad at him – but then he avoided quidditch matches and coffee meetings and a Gryffindor reunion, making it look suspicious.

Hermione did her research; she wasn't someone to form groundless accusations. And in no time she discover Harry was spending an incomprehensible amount of time in the hospital. At first she was deadly scared – was it possible that her dear friend was ill and decided not to tell anyone? It nearly broke her heart. If not the fear, she would never do what she's done afterwards – she decided to write a letter to Justin Flynn-Fletchley, asking him politely if he knew anything about Harry's whereabouts. It was wrong to invade his privacy in such a way, but she coudln't help it; if Harry was in danger, she had to know. And how surprised she was to get to know that Harry was not only healthier than ever, but also taking care of a patient in the hospital! She knew of course Harry was attending many charity events – mostly because he truly liked helping people, especially children that probably reminded him of his own miserable childhood – but there was something different about this case; he was visiting a single person, someone she's never heard about. Luckily Justin wasn't too secretive about Harry and he wrote her in another letter that the patient was suffering from a probably incurable personality split combined with memory loss and was claiming that he was no one other than Lord Voldemort.

Hermione was genuinely _furious_. It felt wrong, so wrong, for Harry to do something like this. Why was he holding on the past so desperately? They've all moved on, those who survived were trying to forget about everything that has happened, yet Harry was doing everything to live through it again. The scar Bellatrix gave her and the marks Ron got in the Department of Mysteries were still visable; and even though Harry's scar wasn't troubling him any longer, it was like a silent reminder for all of them. And the menatal scars... They all had too many of those to count.

So she decided to be angry and talk it out with Harry. Was it some kind of hero complex he couldn't cope with? She had to know.

"I want to help you, Harry" she said, breaking the tense silence that followed her previous question. "There are other ways to deal..."

"Hermione, it's not about me," he interrupted, getting up from his chair, his face hidden from her sight. "It's because... I'm the only one who can help that man."

So he had a hero complex. She should have known already.

"Harry, do you hear what you're saying? The hospital is full of capable and experienced healers. What knowledge do you have to help that man if they couldn't?"

Harry was silent for some time, still turning his back on her. She could see he was troubled, probably because he didn't mean to upset her this much.

"If I've told you my reasons, you wouldn't believe me," he said in the end, finally looking at her. His eyes were immensely tired, as if he was bearing a weight that was too much for him alone.

"You know that I..." _… that I'm on your side_ , she wanted to tell him, but Rosie started crying suddenly and she had to take care of her. Harry was at her side all the time, trying to make it up for his strange behaviour she guessed. Ron was there in no time and they had no chance to finish their conversation.

Harry was relieved he hadn't have to lie.

…

"Up so early?", Ted asked him the minute Harry entered the well-known room number 703. "It's not like he's going to wake up anytime soon."

"Today may be the day," Harry smiled in reply, knowing Ted will soon leave him alone to gossip with other healers about the eccentric Harry Potter and his crazy ideas.

Soon enough Ted left indeed, saying at the door that the Glumbumble's treacle was were it always was – in the jar near bed. Harry was now allowed to administer it himself without healers' help. He was sure they were both relieved and amused with his enthusiasm.

The room wasn't as gloomy as he remembered it from his first visit – the sun was shining there the brightest after midday, but even in the morning it was more than pleasant. The light was slowly brightening the space near the window, illuminating dust particles floating aimlessly in the warm air. There were no bars on the windows, which surprised Harry in the beginning and he even asked Ted whether they're not afraid that someone could espcape the hospital, but the healer laughed merrily in response, telling him no bars were needed when then hospital was protected with magic. _Magic_ , of course. Harry felt dumb and clueless for a week after this conversation, but sometimes it was so easy to forget there was magic all around him – the room looked like any other room he's seen in his life and as the staff wasn't treating their patient with anything more then the treacle, it was too easy to think they were in Muggle London.

But it wasn't Muggle London of course and there was more magic in this single room than in any other room in the whole building, not only because he, The Chosen one, was sitting there, but also – and maybe even more – because the man lying powerlessly in the single bed was Tom Riddle, his mortal enemy and a man gone years ago. Magic strong enough to bring one from the dead was roaming in this place, unseen by everyone beside him.

He wasn't sure _why_ he was still there, sitting on the uncomfortable chair, looking at the sleeping figure for hours day after day. Sometimes he was talking to him and he wasn't sure why either. His stories were random and unconnected, revolving around his childhood and living with his only living family and around Hogwarts of course – the happy years he spent there with his friends and all the adventures they had together. He was trying not to talk about painful memories, he was still feeling guilty at times. There was no way to turn back time, Harry used to tell himself.

But if there was no way, why was this man lying here, in front of his eyes? Magic was tricky indeed – granting a second chance to someone like Tom Riddle, but leaving everyone that he held dear behind. Sirius, Remus, his parents, Dumbledore... Even Snape seemed an acceptable option. But none of them was here. Instead the gone Dark Lord, now looking like a mere boy, escaped death once more.

Maybe there was some sense in it. After all Harry gave him the chance himself. Was it a trial for him and not Voldemort? To testify if he meant it? If he was really ready to forgive him after everything what happened?

If only he had a chance to talk to him once more... Maybe he could understand what was the purpose of it all.

But the Dark Lord was gone after their first small talk and didn't appear ever since, leaving Harry with his own scattered thoughts and a body that seemed lifeless most of the time.

Harry was wondering whether Voldemort was truly gone – was he lying when he said that it was Tom Riddle who took the painful path of redemption? It was hard to believe the Dark Lord would give up on coming back to life so easily... Or maybe he preferred to had a chance to live again no matter what, even if it required getting rid of that part of him?

The most burning question was whether Tom Riddle was Lord Voldemort. Harry remembered well enough their meeting in the Chamber of Secrets and the way Tom Riddle made it clear he was Voldemort indeed – _my past, present, future_ , the words kept coming back to him every day. Then again the man, the memory, the _horcrux_ he had met during his second year at Hogwarts, was he really Tom Riddle or maybe only a twisted reflection of the Slytherin student from the past? He was different then the boy he's seen in Dumbledore's memories; that one was making him feel _pity_. He was the reason Harry said what he said in the Forbidden Forest the day he thought everything was going to end. Tom Riddle was evil, there was no mistake about it. But it was the kind of evil Harry could have in himself too – feelings of those who were unwanted and lonely for too long.

He wasn't thinkg much about what he would do if the patient he was taking care of woke up. The healers were treating him nicely so far, because he was Harry Potter, but what would they do if they knew the man in their care was really the Dark Lord and not a joke they were telling everyone about after a few drinks? There was a chance he could take Tom Riddle from the hospital, but only after he woke up and didn't need the treacle any longer. Neville told him the substance was under Ministry's watch after it was used as a drug years before they were even born.

So for now Harry could only wait. Patience was never his strong side, but this time he felt there was no reason to rush things. He was sitting at Tom Riddle's bedside nearly every day and when he wasn't there he was sure to get check-ups from Ted every hour in case anything happened.

Lord Voldemort was gone and Tom Riddle was mostly silent, nothing has changed during the three months Harry had spend in the hospital. It was always the same – in the morning he was sipping his coffee and reading _The Daily Prophet_ , updating Tom on current issues, then Ted was coming around midday with some strengthening potions as there was no other way to feed the once-Dark Lord and in the afternoon, when sun was shining brightly through the old glass creating an angelic helo around the sleeping man, Tom Riddle was coming to life.

Sometimes he was only turning from side to side in visable agony with eyes shut tightly and breath shortening to rapid spasms, other times he was trying to say something but nothing more than a few words would escape him mouth.

"I didn't... I... It wasn't what I..." Harry couldn't make any sense of such mumbling, but whatever was occuping Tom Riddle's mind – most probably the weight of his sins – wasn't letting him go easily.

Sometimes he was calling Harry by his name, making it sound foreign and different. No one has ever said his name with such despair, not even his friends when they were in great need. But even though he always responded with something among the lines of "I'm here", there was no response.

This day wasn't different so far – the sun was getting up and soon enough Ted was supposed to come with medicine and news from other wards, entertaining Harry with a chatter for more or less twenty minutes. Then he could drink another coffee and get ready for the attack, as there was no other suitable word for what was happening.

But as his thoughts started to wander, traveling between memories floating in his head, something happened. At first he wasn't sure what exactly made him feel alarm all of a sudden, but then he saw it – a Glumbumble flew into the room, buzzing furiously and heading right in his direction. He wanted to run away as fast as he could - there was nothing pleasant about insects as a whole, not to mention that one time Dudley poured honey on his shirt near a wasp nest. But of course he couldn't escape the room; he knew the Glumbumble could be potentially dangerous and Neville told him once only certified wizards had the right to keep those, making the treacle even harder to obtain.

Therefore he stayed in his place, dodging his head slightly and feeling more than anxious while the Glumbumble was getting near. And when he suddenly remembered he had a wand in his pocket – something rather useful in times of need – the insect soflty landed on Tom Riddle's forehead, surely unaware of the risk it was taking. It would look rather amusing if he didn't know who was lying in this bed... Or maybe that's why it was so ridiculous? Harry held his breath; he had to kill it or at least made it leave somehow, the risk of it stinging the one in his care was too high. He tried to pull out his wand, but it was too late – the Glumbumble buzzed again and flew away as suddenly as it appeared, leaving a sore mark behind. Harry thought it looked bizzare - even more as it was exactly in the same place as his scar – but he had no time to think about it more as another unexpected event occurred.

Tom Riddle rose his hand to his forehead and made a sound indicating he was in pain. However, it wasn't the usual voice of despair Harry knew, it was more like a childish cry of pain after getting bitten by a bumblebee or a exceptionally aggressive wasp. Still in shock, Harry watched in surprise when Tom Riddle not only sighted deeply, but also sat up, looking at him with disbelief.

"Harry?," he asked with immense surpise in his voice. "What are you doing here?"

"Excuse me?" Harry wasn't going to put up with this. "I should be the one asking what are _you_ doing here?"

"I came from the dead after accepting my faults, isn't it obious? You were the one to propose it in the first place," Harry heard in reply, sensing Riddle's slight annoyance. It seemed some things never changed. "But why would _you_ be here of all people?"

Harry was silent for a moment. There was a reason, he knew it deep down, but had yet to accept it.

"Responsibility," he said simply, smiling a little forcefully. "I have to take responsibilty for my offer."

It was strangely easy to say it out loud, even though in his head the words sounded burdensome and heavy. Maybe he had his own redemption coming. Or maybe he was a hopeless example of hero complex.

"Reasonable enough," Tom Riddle stated calmly. "Should we talk about..."

"No," Harry interrupted him harshly. "I prefer to focus on the not-dying part of life."

The room went silent for a while. Even the Glumbumble sat peacefully on the window frame, as if it was waiting for something. The sun was still shining and the world around didn't seem too concerned about whatever was happening in room 703.

And when the silence started to get heavy and Harry felt strangely empty inside, Tom Riddle looked at him and asked with a hint of curiosity in his voice:

"How's the not dying going then?"

* * *

 _ **AN:** I must say writing gets easier each time I write in English rather than Polish, avoiding my usual Polish-English translation stage. Hope you enjoyed reading this story as much as I did enjoy writing it!_

 _Maybe there will be another chapter to it, but most probably not in the near future._


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